My time clock is about 10 hours off. I’m waking up when I should be going to bed. Having breakfast when I usually dine. I walk dazedly on unsure footing still not believing where I am. The night before, Chris and I wander the Thamel taking our life in our hands crossing the street to get there. The Thamel is a concentrated Nepalese theme district for the tourists to shop and stay in. One can buy anything from singing bowls to pashmina scarves to trekking poles. One can also drink at an Irish pub. I, still in my dream state, dodge the locals who follow you around hawking cheap souvenirs. No, I really don’t want the miniature screechy violin or the fake dagger with fake silver in the fake leather sheath. So we hide out in the pleasant and aptly named “Garden of Dreams” — originally a private neo-classical garden with Buddhist deities posed Greek-like — and have our first traditional Nepali meal of rice and lentils with curried vegetables. Delicious.
Bright and early we are greeted in the lobby by Kamudah (sp? — Komodo dragon is how we remember his name). Kamudah is our guide for most of the day to view the popular sites of Kathmandu. We pile into a creaky compact car and head into the river rapids of traffic, weaving and honking. First stop, the Monkey Temple. We climb up and up into the hills, dodging sari clad women and dogs, motorcycles and bicycles, closely sideswiping other cars. As you may expect, there were lots of monkeys. Everywhere. Macaques to be exact. Old, young and cute babies clinging to their mothers. I fear making eye contact lest one jump onto my head. But they leave us alone as we amble along amid stupas and gompas listening intently to Kamudah’s spiel.
Poor lined the paths of the temple area, old and young. As much as we pretend not to see them, they are ever present. And, expectedly, a dirty small girl hovers around us with her hand out. We have been discouraged beforehand to not give money so we don’t and avoid contact. But it is odd to be in a sacred place that preaches selflessness and compassion, kindness and respect and not take some kind of action. It is hard to make the decision whether or not to get involved. But Komodo dragon shoos her away. We move on, passing beneath fluttering prayer flags, bright white stupas, and shiny gold gateways. The burning smell of incense in the air, and a new-agey recording of “om mani padme hum” repeating over and over that we find we hear all over town. Eventually, Kamudah channels us through the “gift shop”—a row of stands with more miniature screechy violins, fake daggers and other assorted cheap Nepali souvenirs that I had a feeling were made in either China or India. But, I thought of that little girl often during our travels and what kind of life she will ever have. She couldn’t have been more than 6 or 7.
The remainder of our day took us to the ornate palaces and more temples of the Patan area which was described as the arts district. Ancient buildings are beautiful and detailed with statues of elephants and bulls, and cool, shaded courtyards with mulit-tiered rooftops towering above. But Kamudah had a cyclical way of speaking that was making us dizzy and distracted (“Shiva is a god. The god is Shiva. What god is that? Shiva. And he was really into sex!”). I kept trying to get a read on what he thought of Chris and me, but he seemed on autopilot with his guide duties and we were in our disconnected New Yorker attitudes as well as on sensory overload—decorum was kept by all.
Finally, we ended at the sacred site of Pashupatinath which sits next to the Bagmati river. It is the location for cremating loved ones and today was no exception. The air was filled with the smoke of burning bodies, the river lined with garbage and floating with offerings of flowers. Locals just seemed to be hanging out eyeing the tourists in an opportunistic kind of way. Holy men sat in the shade of stupas as they do day in and day out, 365 days a year, looking like drag queens heavily made up with the ashes of the dead. It was a grim and strange place and I felt the intruder and on edge. A witness to something intensely personal as a tourist attraction. Fascinating as it was, I couldn’t wait to pull myself away.
Photos from this trip can be viewed here.
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